THE FINANCIER
wide, white stone steps leading up to the door. The
window arches, framed in white, had U-shaped keystones.
He noticed the curtains of lace and a glimpse of red plush
through the windows, which gleamed warm against the
cold and snow outside. A trim Irish maid came to the
door.
"Is Mr. Butler here?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I'll find out. He may have gone
out. Who shall I say?"
Mr. Cowperwood had his card ready, and gave it to
her.
She invited him in and disappeared. In a little while
he was asked to come up-stairs, where he found Mr.
Butler in a somewhat commercial-looking front room. It
had a desk, an office chair, some leather furnishings, and
a book-case, but no completeness or symmetry as either
an office or a home room. There were several pictures
on the wall—an impossible oil-painting for one thing,
dark and gloomy; a canal and barge scene in pink and
nile green for another; some daguerreotypes of relatives
and friends which were not half had. Cowperwood noticed
one of two girls, one with reddish-gold hair, another with
what appeared to be silky brown. The beautiful silver
effect of the daguerreotype had been tinted. They were
pretty girls, healthy, smiling, Celtic, their young heads
close together, their eyes looking straight out at you.
He admired them casually, and fancied they must be
Butler's daughters.
" Mr. Cowperwood?" spoke Mr. Butler, turning his
round, solid face on him and uttering the name fully
with a peculiar accent on the vowels (he was a slow-
moving man, solemn and deliberate). Cowperwood
noticed that his body was hale and strong like seasoned
hickory, tanned by wind and rain. The flesh of his
cheeks was pulled taut, and there was nothing either soft
or flabby about him.
" I'm that man."